The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 1/Number 4/The Busts of Goethe and Schiller
This is Goethe, with a forehead Like the fabled front of Jove;In its massive lines the tokens More of majesty than love.
This is Schiller, in whose features, With their passionate calm regard,We behold the true ideal Of the high heroic Bard,
Whom the inward world of feeling And the outward world of senseTo the endless labor summon, And the endless recompense.
These are they, sublime and silent, From whose living lips have rungWords to be remembered ever In the noble German tongue:
Thoughts whose inspiration, kindling Into loftiest speech or song,Still through all the listening ages Pours its torrent swift and strong.
As to-day in sculptured marble Side by side the Poets stand,So they stood in life's great struggle, Side by side and hand to hand.
In the ancient German city, Dowered with many a deathless name,Where they dwelt and toiled together, Sharing each the other's fame:
One till evening's lengthening shadows Gently stilled his faltering lips,But the other's sun at noonday Shrouded in a swift eclipse.
There their names are household treasures, And the simplest child you meetGuides you where the house of Goethe Fronts upon the quiet street;
And, hard by, the modest mansion Where full many a heart has feltMemories uncounted clustering Round the words, "Here Schiller dwelt."
In the churchyard both are buried, Straight beyond the narrow gate,In the mausoleum sleeping With Duke Charles in sculptured state.
For the Monarch loved the Poets, Called them to him from afar,Wooed them near his court to linger, And the planets sought the star.
He, his larger gifts of fortune With their larger fame to blend,Living, counted it an honor That they named him as their friend;
Dreading to be all-forgotten, Still their greatness to divide,Dying, prayed to have his Poets Buried one on either side.
But this suited not the gold-laced Ushers of the royal tomb,Where the princely House of Weimar Slumbered in majestic gloom.
So they ranged the coffins justly, Each with fitting rank and stamp,And with shows of court precedence Mocked the grave’s sepulchral damp.
Fitly now the clownish sexton Narrow courtier-rules rebukes;First he shows the grave of Goethe, Schiller’s next, and last—the Duke's.
Vainly ’midst these truthful shadows Pride would flaunt her painted wing;Here the Monarch waits in silence, And the Poet is the King!